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قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, October 15, 1892
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, October 15, 1892
hero, his ideal Knight,
Inspired his strains. From fount to flood they ran
A flawless course of melody and light.
A Christian chivalry shone in his song
From Locksley Hall to shadowy Lyonnesse,
Whence there stand forth two figures, stately, strong,
Symbols of spirit's stress;
The blameless King, saintship with scarce a blot,
And song's most noble sinner, LANCELOT.
Lover of England, lord of English hearts,
Master of English speech, painter supreme
Of English landscape! Patriot passion starts
A-flame, pricked by the words that glow and gleam
In those imperial pæans, which might arm
Pale cowards for the fray. Touched by his hand
The simple sweetness, and the homely charm
Of our green garden-land
Take on a witchery as of Arden's glade,
Or verdant Vallombrosa's leafy shade.
The fragrant fruitfulness of wood and wold,
Of flowery upland, and of orchard-lawn,
Lit by the lingering evening's softened gold,
Or flushed with rose-hued radiance of the dawn;
Bird-music beautiful; the robin's trill,
Or the rook's drowsy clangour; flats that run
From sky to sky, dusk woods that drape the hill,
Still lakes that draw the sun;
All, all are mirror'd in his verse, and there
Familiar beauties shine most strangely fair.
Poet, the pass-key magical was thine,
To Beauty's Fairy World, in classic calm
Or rich romantic colour. Bagdat's shrine
By sheeny Tigris, Syrian pool and palm,
Avilion's bowery hollows, Ida's peak,
The lily-laden Lotos land, the fields
Of amaranth! What may vagrant Fancy seek
More than thy rich song yields,
Of Orient odour, Faëry wizardry,
Or soft Arcadian simplicity?
From all, far Faëry Land, Romance's realm,
Green English homestead, cloud-crown'd Attic hill,
The Poet passes—whither? Not the helm
Of wounded ARTHUR, lit by light that fills
Avilion's fair horizons, gleamed more bright
Than does that leonine laurelled visage now,
Fronting with steadfast look that mystic Light.
Grave eye, and gracious brow
Turn from the evening bell, the earthly shore,
To face the Light that floods him evermore.
Farewell! How fitlier should a poet pass
Than thou from that dim chamber and the gleam
Of poor earth's purest radiance? Love, alas!
Of that strange scene must long in sorrow dream.
But we—we hear thy manful music still!
A royal requiem for a kingly soul!
No sadness of farewell! Away regret,
When greatness nears its goal!
We follow thee, in thought, through light, afar
Divinely piloted beyond the bar!
TO MY SWEETHEART.
["Those roses you bought and gave to me are marvels. They are still alive."—Her Letter.]
A Hothouse where some roses blew,
And, whilst the outer world was white,
The gentle roses softly grew
To fragrant visions of delight.
Some wretched florist owned them all,
And plucked them from their native bowers,
Then gaily showed them on his stall
To swell the ranks of "Fresh-Cut Flowers."
Some went beside a bed of pain
Where influenza claimed its due;
They drooped and never smiled again,
The epidemic had them too.
A gay young gallant bought some buds,
And jauntily went out to dine
With other reckless sporting bloods,
Who talked of women, drank of wine;
But whilst they talked, and smoked, and drank,
And told tales not too sanctified.
Abashed the timid blossoms shrank,
Changed colour, faded, and then died.
Yet roses, too, I gave to you,
I saw you place them near your heart,
You wore them all the evening through,
You wore them when we came to part.
But now you write to me, my dear,
And marvel that they are not dead,
Their beauty does not disappear,
Their fragrant perfume has not fled.
The reason's plain. Somehow aright
The flowers know if we ignore them.
The roses live for sheer delight
At knowing, Sweetheart, that you wore them.
THOUGHTS—NOT WORTH A PENNY.
(Fragment from the Burlesque-Romance of "No Cents; or, The New Criticism.")
The Critic of the new cult visited a tailor's establishment, and was delighted with all he saw. There were coats, and vests, and other garments.
"I make some fifty per cent. profit," said the proprietor of the establishment, stroking his moustache with a hand adorned with many a diamond ring. "Of course it causes some labour, thought, and time—but I get my money for my trouble."
"And why not?" replied the Critic. "Are you not worth it? Do you not devote your energy to it? Must you not live?"
And, having said this, the Reviewer visited another place of business. This time he had entered the office of a Stockbroker.
"Of course it is rather anxious work sometimes," said the alternative representative of a bull and a bear. "But it pays in the long run. I manage to keep up a house in South Kensington, and a carriage and pair, out of my takings."
"Again, why not?" responded the Critic. "You have a wife and family. Must you not live?" Then the Critic visited Cheesemongers, and Bankers, Solicitors, and Upholsterers. At last, he reached the modest abode of an Author.
"Ah!" said he, in a tone of contempt; "you write books and plays! Why?
"Why, to sell them," answered the Poet, in a faltering voice.
"Sell them!" echoed the Critic, in tones of thunder. "What do you mean by that?"
"Why, one must live!"
"Nonsense! The universe can get on very well without anyone. You might be dispensed with; and, if it comes to that, so might I. Yes, I am not wanted."
"Quite true!" murmured the Author; "indeed, you are not!"
"And, after all, what is your work? Mere brain action! Anyone who could wield a pen could do it for you! And you expect to be paid, as if you were a tradesman—a Tailor or an Upholsterer!"
"But am I not a man and a brother? Do I not get hungry, like anyone else? Have I not a wife and family?"
"That is entirely beside the question," persisted the Critic. "All you have to consider are the claims of Art. Now, Art is not to be served by paid votaries."
"Then I suppose am unworthy," replied the Author, mournfully shaking his head. Well, let us exchange places. You shall be the Author, and I will be the Critic."
"Very sorry, my dear friend, but that is an unjust division. By that means you would receive all the money."
"And why not? If I am to write, why am I not to be paid?"
"Because it is beneath the dignity of an Author to write with a view to obtaining cash."